


You Can't Reach Me

by iamnotbrianmay



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Brother-Sister Relationships, Family, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Roger Feels, Rogerina - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 00:10:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18905491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamnotbrianmay/pseuds/iamnotbrianmay
Summary: After letting her walls be thorn down, after letting people in, the worst thing that could have happened, happens.Because the respect you earn by making yourself known in the music industry wears off with time, and all you are left with is the cruel reality of a world that is dominated by men who think they are better than you. Who think they own you. Who think that just because you are a girl you are somehow less than them.And that is how she finds herself bruised and alone in the bathroom of some dirty pub crying for help.





	You Can't Reach Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Hey! This one shot is set in the universe of BrooklynBugleBoy's beautiful piece "I Surrender" which I think you should check out before you read this (As well as the rest of their works because Holy Fuck, they are amazing). 
> 
> As the tags stated this will not be a happy story, because I literally can't write anything happy without getting distracted. So yeah! Here we go! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

It's almost funny, Rogerina comes to think while lying on the disgusting bathroom floor, how fifteen minutes can undo what twenty-five years couldn't. 

Her head still feels woozy from whatever roofie had been put into her drink, her hands are trembling uncontrollably, and she feels like she wouldn't ever be able to stand up again if she wanted too— which she doesn't. She just wants to stay in the grimy bathroom, curled up and hidden away from the world until her skin starts to rot and she is forgotten by everyone around her. 

But life isn't that kind, not towards her anyway. 

It takes somewhere between fifteen minutes and three years for the boys to find her after  _he_ has left. She is still sprawled on the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks, and pants half way down her thighs. She hears them get there in a flurry of movement, sees them cradle her limp body to their chest, trying to save what they can before it crumbles right before their eyes. 

But regardless of their efforts, regardless of their intentions, something inside her changed. The flame which had burned brightly inside her chest and had fuelled her anger and fiery temper had been snuffed in a matter of seconds. The spark of rebellion and stubbornness which had danced inside her eyes since she was old enough to remember, was replaced by the empty stare of a broken woman. 

And as she lays limp, cradled in Brian's arms while Freddie cleans her as best as he can, and Deaky heads off to find their van, Rogerina can only think about how funny it is that fifteen minutes can undo what twenty-five years couldn't. 

❀✿❀

Three days after the incident and Roggie still sits quiet. 

It's too early to know if she is pregnant, too early to even think about her getting better, but the silence is a testament of of how things have changed. If anything they had expected for her to be angry, to cry, and scream bloody murder at whoever had done that to her. But the silence is much worse. 

It's like living with a ghost. A spectre who looks like their drummer, yet acts nothing like her, and as the hours pass and the silence continues they grow even more scared. But perhaps it becomes scarier when she begins to speak. 

It starts with sigh of relief and a small ' _thank you'_ uttered to the nurse who tells them she is not pregnant. The relief is palpable, not only because of the lack of even more serious repercussions, but because they can finally listen to their girl's voice. Roggie's first words after eight days of not speaking are monosyllabic, at best, but anything is better than silence which they had endured. 

That is until they realised she had become  _pliant._

It starts out small, with little things like not complaining about being coddled, or refusing to say no even when its obvious she is uncomfortable with a situation. And it eventually escalates until the point where she asks for their permission to do  _anything,_ which would be worrying for anyone, but especially makes it seem like there is something wrong with her. 

It goes on like that for a few weeks until they manage to get themselves back in the studio. It's a cold December afternoon and as always the band finds itself fighting over something or other, except this time she is just sitting behind the drum kit, waiting for the fight to dissipate. It heated enough for them to momentarily forget the elephant in the room, the ghost of their best friend, of their sister, sitting and waiting for them. 

"Well, fuck you, Brian," Freddie turns towards the blond, who is looking at her drums like they are the most interesting things in the world, "Rog, tell him he is wrong." 

Brian stops his foot, when he sees Rogerina meet Freddie's eyes, "Come on, Roggie. You seriously can't be on his side, the song  _sucks_ at a 3/4 tempo." 

She is frozen, her expression akin to one of a deer in headlights, and then she sighs, "I don't know guys, you should decide." 

In that moment the world froze around them. Brian turned fully towards her, furrowing his brow, and Freddie blinked owlishly. Even Deaky, who had been staying  _away_ from the discussion was now looking at her life she had suddenly sprouted a second head. 

She let her gaze fall to the ground, cheeks burning with embarrassment and eyes brimmed with tears. Her retreat from the room is fast, as fast as she can make he weak legs carry her out of the studio and into the building's private courtyard. A pack of cigarettes in one hand, a lighter in the other, and the sinking feeling that she had done something wrong. 

❀✿❀

Having an opinion about everything, Roger learned from a young age, meant that people never took her for granted. 

Either because they knew she was informed about the topic enough to know what she was talking about, or because they knew that they could get a rise out of her at every given moment. Which seemed to be a house favourite for every single boy in her life. 

She has an opinion on everything ranging between human rights to which type of sugar tastes better. And that gets her into trouble more ties that she can count. Especially with me who would often think that their voice, their opinion, mattered more than hers. 

She had the philosophy of telling them to screw themselves and get her point across regardless of how long it took and how strenuous the fight was. And while some like Brian, Freddie, and Deaky could appreciate that, other just wanted her quiet. Others wanted her to nod along to whatever they said, smile, and look pretty. 

 _He_ had been one of those people. 

And Roger had only noticed after the world tilted on its axis, and he made her into the punching bag she had been so desperately trying to avoid being her whole life. 

❀✿❀

Her fingers trembled as she took out the first fag of many from the box. She could barely get them to stay still long enough to turn on her lighter and goddamn is she had felt useless before she now felt like she wasn't even good at slowly killing herself. Miserable and pathetic she tel the tears roll down her cheeks as she inhaled the smoke and held it in her lungs until she felt light headed. 

The nicotine was strong enough to leave her with the need to lean against the wall to sustain her weight— she took another drag, aching for more. 

The reaction was instantaneous. Her breathing evened out, her heart stopped trying to beat out of her chest, and her fingers stopped trembling enough for her to finish one cigarette and light the next. 

The door opened and closed beside her, and out came Deaky, who visibly relaxed once he saw her leaning against the wall smoking. She offered one to hi silently and he took it without much hesitation. Lighting it with his own lighter, a pretty fancy thing that Roger had found in one of her manic shopping sprees, and taking a long drag. 

Hours could have gone by, with them smoking side by side until the box was empty and there was nothing left for them to corrode their lungs with. It was only then that Roger slid down the wall, pulling the strings of the, too-big, hoodie and covering her legs with the extra fabric. Deaky followed, and soon both of the were curled up enjoying the lingering effects of nicotine and the soft breeze that ruffled their hair. 

"You asked me once about my family, about why I ran away from Truro and left behind everything I ever knew," For a second John wished that the other two would burst into the garden right now and would listen to whatever revelation Roger was about to make, but alas they didn't show up. "You'd think it was because of my father, because of his habits of beating me black and blue, but that's not really the case." 

She flicked her lighter,  _on, off, on, off,_ and John could see her urge to light another cigarette and ease her nerves. After a few minutes of silence, she finally spoke again, "It wasn't really because of him. I could have handled the beatings. I could have handled the malnourishment and the awful words directed at me because I wasn't born a boy. I could have, I really could." 

Another beat of silence. Another sigh from her part. 

"I couldn't handle her, though. Couldn't handle the way that she would watch as he treated me and my sister that way. Couldn't handle the way that she agreed to everything he said. Couldn't handle how submissive and how under his control she was. I couldn't handle how she was his fu—" she cut herself off, glaring at the way that now she couldn't even utter a curse word without it feeling like it was not right, "she was his  _punchbag._ " 

One of her hands curled into a fist, but it wasn't like the one Deaky was so used to seeing from her. It was like she was trying to test the mobility of the appendages, not show the world how ready she was to fight her way through whatever challenges life was giving her. 

"I used to loathe her for being paralysed in fear, for keeping her mouth shut, her head down and looking pretty for appearances sake. Now I'm in her place and can't help but think that maybe I was to harsh."  _On, off, on,_ "I've turned into somebody's _Punchbag_ , Deaky, and I'm scared I will never be able to get myself back." 

❀✿❀

Finding them is easy. 

Truro is a small town, with an even smaller community. What happened in one household would soon be known all over the neighbourhood, and what had happened to Winifred and Claire Taylor was known by everyone. A town legend, if you will. 

The youngest child had called the police of Michael once things got too out of hand. They rounded up the house and found the hundreds of broken bottle of liquor, the remnants of what used to be Roger's room, and Claire and Winifred. Bloodied, bruise, and battered. It had been enough to send him to jail, somewhere far away from their small country house and peaceful little town. But it was not enough for the news to reach Rogerina, no matter how many time Claire had gone looking for her. 

It ends up being her who comes looking for them, seeking to make up for her penultimate sin and apologise for leaving. Apologise for not trying to understand. For being so naive, so hot headed, so angry at the world to be able to see past what she had been living through. 

They both take her in with open arms, the reunion is tear-filled with loads of apologies from all parties involved. For leaving them alone, for letting her go, for waiting so long before doing something about their problems. 

It's a different house than the one she left all those years ago, and she doesn't know whether to feel worried or flattered that even after all of this years there is still a room for her in the house. 

❀✿❀

"We are not having chicken today," Brian commented, "just good old tofu." 

"Okay." 

Something flickered across his face, "And a salad." 

Roger shrugged, "Sounds good." 

" _Rogerina._ " 

"What?" 

"You are allowed to say no." 

She wrinkled her nose, "Why would I?" 

" _Why would—_ 'Cause you hate tofu!" Brian insisted, "and salad. And you are allowed to have an opinion, you are allowed to argue with me."

Her eyes flickered momentarily towards him, and she pursed her lips, "Okay, I'll try to do that more." 

A frustrated growl left Brian's throat, "Okay this is getting frustrating. Roger, do you want tofu or not?" 

"Brian I don-" 

"No, please," Brian interrupted her, "I'm asking a yes or no question, Rog. Do you want tofu or not?" 

"Brian I—" 

"Yes or No, Roggie, answer me _please_." 

It was like a flip being switched, she flicked her fingers in an outward motion and stomped her foot, " _No_. The answer is _no_ Brian, are you happy?" 

She was left panting from the effort the words took. Her chest was heaving and there were tears forming at the brim of her eyes. Her hands were clenched into fists, her arms shaking, and for a second she felt the old spark back. The second past though, and she was left empty and hollow again, but Brian looked beyond proud. 

He took a step forward, placing a hand on Rogerina's cheek, and looking at her with equally misty eyes, "Very. I'm so proud princess. I'm so proud." 

Long ago, while curled in a hospital bed and dealing with a kidney infection she had surrendered to her boys. Surrendered into letting them take care of her and coddle her into health. Now she was standing in the kitchen of their shared apartment, years later, with Brian cradling her face and asking her to keep fighting. 

So she gritted her teeth, curled her fingers into fists, and did just as he asked. She kept on  _fighting._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, Kudos, and Feedback are highly appreciated! 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr as @iamnotbrianmay


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